Unbroken
by Windswift
Summary: Yomi/Kurama - Yomi has always been foolish. Now he is simply foolishly overcautious, and it still costs him the one thing he values most of all.


Disclaimer: YuYu Hakusho belongs to Yoshihiro Togashi

_**Unbroken**_

For all his boasts, Yomi never felt his blindness more keenly than when he stood in Kurama's presence.

The proper approach to the fox eluded him. Yomi gained power through superior strength, physically or mentally; he gained control by breaking others. But Kurama stubbornly resisted. Where others failed and finally gave in to submission, he adapted with amazing flexibility to rapidly changing circumstances, even before he understood the advantages he seized.

Kurama rendered all of Yomi's plans no more than stalling tactics.

Yomi had admitted long ago to himself that Kurama could never be broken, and with such a person, he could never be completely satisfied. But if Kurama would at least offer a concession, a compromise—any sign of submission, without a sea of deception between them. Yomi's motives were simple: to have Kurama. Once he possessed an assurance of the fox, all of his complicated schemes could be stripped away; once Kurama understood his intentions, he would be able to see through those threatening guises. They were only necessary for as long as it took to play on Kurama's level to get Yomi's point across.

He had failed now for nearly a year to impress his intent upon Kurama. The constant battle of check, with no victory in sight for either side, wearied him.

The newfound limits to his patience surprised even Yomi himself. He had kept his word; despite his desires, he had taken nothing from Kurama that the fox had not been willing to give him. But if Yomi could touch him—

Kurama's palms blistered angry and red from carelessly pressing them to the warded door—or perhaps the windows—again. The burns radiated a faint sense of heat, and Kurama cradled his hands carefully even as he stood in the middle of the well-furnished room. Yomi entertained the brief fantasy of such occasions: that he would take Kurama's small human hands in his own, hold them tenderly and kiss his palms. Following the most basic of instincts, he would gently lick the skin from his wrist to fingertips in an attempt to soothe the injuries, carefully placing each burned finger in his mouth.

But Kurama never offered his hands. Later Yomi would set a tray of cool water, salves, and bandages inside the room for Kurama's use, but as far as he could tell, the fox seemed to scorn them. Not the gesture itself, or out of offense at Yomi's treatment, but merely because he preferred to quietly suffer through the healing process.

In silence Yomi checked the wards plastered to the doorframe. As he performed the routine he never alluded to threats or bothered with any false or condescending comments: "I wish these weren't necessary; If only you would accept my feelings for you, all could be well." He waited respectfully for Kurama's hand before he would make any advances, in part thinking this behavior most pleasing to the fox's sensibilities, the surest way to win him over.

Kurama hadn't changed. From the beginning, Yomi had expected to meet with muscles tensed as firm as stone and a voice like ice, yet Kurama's one consistency was to continually confound any anticipations imposed on him.

After nearly a year, the whispers had grown louder. Everyone had expected that by now some change would have occurred since that first day—that Yomi would grow harsher, that Kurama would escape, that the fox would be won at any cost with brutal and unrelenting force, or even something entirely unexpected.

But after so long knowing him, Yomi exercised caution in all respects regarding Kurama. He was too wary to make any further moves before Kurama took a stance and revealed his intentions first. Kurama, however, had remained the same as the first day. He always greeted Yomi's entrances with his back facing, his most vulnerable side—physically—exposed to the lord. He remained quiet and docile, thinking thoughts Yomi could not read from his body language and of which he could only guess at the contents. Something in them kept Kurama relaxed and apathetic even more than could be attained with the strongest drugs; he never resisted, never tried to leave, never hissed warnings and threats, but peculiarly, silently, passively tolerated it.

Still, the untamed fox had bitten Yomi too many times for him to overcome his shyness. And with Kurama's inability to be broken, he dared not approach without first a sign from him. So the stalemate continued from the first moment.

Beneath his clothes, the same ones Kurama had first brought with him at the start of his stay, his human body was slowly wearing thin. Kurama wasn't truly languishing or ill, but he simply failed to thrive in his captivity. In another year's time, the condition might worry Yomi enough to prompt him to take action over it, but for now, Kurama bore it all with that strangely wistful, apathetic humor, the tiny enigmatic smile etched into the corners of his lips unforced.

Yomi regretted most that he could not glean any information from the look of Kurama's eyes.

He acutely heard the crackle of power from the wards as Kurama touched a fingertip to the window glass. With his ears, he even detected the faint sizzle of skin, but Kurama's face never creased in pain.

"I wonder…" Kurama rarely spoke, and the slight hoarseness of his voice testified to the fact. But more than curiosity for Kurama's words Yomi felt a pressing urge to go over and grab Kurama's wrist, pulling him away from the window. But he didn't move, not without an invitation to advance. "Do you think they cry over me, I wonder?"

Kurama slowly pulled his hand back to himself, and Yomi breathed a silent sigh of relief. "Who?" he asked, still standing in the doorway—not to prevent Kurama's escape, but to refrain from overstepping his bounds.

The fox's face pointed down, as if reading the words from his injured palms. "I wonder if I'm a burden to them. Maybe it would be better if they forgot me."

"Who?" Yomi repeated. He shifted his weight and frowned slightly, ill at ease with the unexpected conversation and Kurama's cryptic responses. He was hesitant to step willingly into a trap, but also slightly less sure now that, even though the fox could not be broken, Kurama had incurred no damage from this.

Kurama tilted his head back, seemingly considering it, then turned his face towards Yomi. "You have the technology, don't you? Some tool finely tuned enough to take away only their memories of me. Something to take away all their memories of me, forever."

"Kurama. I don't know what you're talking about."

He blinked as if surprised by that revelation, but elaborated, "My family—so they won't worry. And Yuusuke, Kuwabara, and Hiei. Anyone who ever knew me, so that they won't be tempted to come find me. You'd like that too, wouldn't you?"

Kurama stepped away from the window, his hands still held awkwardly and protectively before his chest. He walked quietly to the middle of the room, meeting Yomi halfway, then continued nearly to the doorway—not near enough that they touched, but Yomi could feel the stirring of air from Kurama's breath.

Yomi had a peculiar urge to back away. To give Kurama space, to protect himself from any unexpected treachery, or if to keep the status quo of their stalemate, he did not know. He held his ground.

"It would be what you want, isn't it? To possess me—all of me—for yourself only."

Kurama's apathy kept Yomi effectively blind to his intentions. His hand gripped the doorframe tightly; Kurama spoke the truth. Yomi desired complete and total control of Kurama, although he had convinced himself to settle for less, and the fox had just offered to begin the process.

With their memories gone, the ties severed and the danger incurred by those vanished, Kurama would no longer think of his family. Removing the others ensured that no disturbances would occur in the future—an especially attractive motive since Yomi had been long expecting a rescue attempt that had as of yet not taken place.

Kurama rested his forehead against Yomi's chest, a silent plea more satisfying and tempting than any preceding it.

But by now, Yomi had developed a finely-tuned hypersensitivity to convoluted plots, especially in concern to Kurama. And especially now, with tactics devised to play to Yomi's vulnerabilities, and when Yomi could not read Kurama's thoughts or predict his moves. He thought of enfolding the thin shoulders in his arms; he thought of taking the not yet fully-grown hands in his own and soothing the burns as he had imagined before.

Decisively, faster than a snake striking, Yomi's face snapped into a frown and he shoved Kurama away, unbalancing the fox with the sharp strike to his shoulder. Yomi furiously ripped the wards from the doorframe, tossing them to the floor; the shreds of paper curled in on themselves from the vicious force.

Kurama didn't move, stunned or frozen. Yomi paid no attention to whether he watched or not.

If Kurama encouraged it—if Kurama desired it—no matter if Yomi had wanted it first—then it was surely a trap. Kurama's suggestions could never be trusted, even if Yomi had been the first to plan them.

Kurama's move.

Yomi's move.

Clear the board, and maybe—surely—he would set up the game again later.

For now—breathing heavily, the last of the strips of inked paper drifting to the floor, Yomi stepped out of the doorway and into the hall. "Just go," he growled.

Kurama didn't brush himself off, didn't gather his things, didn't look back. He simply picked himself up, slowly, and left through the door that had finally been opened and freed for him for the first time in almost a year.

Although Yomi could not witness it with his sightless eyes, he knew Kurama left Gandara with his head high and unbowed, still unbroken.

**…  
Owari  
…**

_-Windswift_


End file.
